“Forever,” she says.
“Exactly,” I smirk, moving my hand up her body to her face.
I stroke tears from her cheeks, and then hold her in the way we both love.
She turns her cheek toward me, smiling adorably.
“Are you going to tell me where we’re going yet?” she asks.
I chuckle. “Do you ever quit?”
“You don’t call me firecracker for nothing, right?”
“We’re going someplace we’ll remember for the rest of our lives,” I tell her.
“It must be somewhere special,” she says.
I nod. “It is. But it’s not just the place that makes it special. It’s what’s going to happen there.”
“Oh, cryptic,” she giggles. “Care to give me a clue?”
I swallow, laughing inwardly in disbelief.
After the day we’ve had, how can these nerves still riot and twist inside of me?
“No way,” I smirk. “You’ll have to just wait and see.”
“Where is everybody?” Fiona murmurs as we glide through the gates and the Eiffel Tower looms above us.
I smirk across at her.
“I’ve paid to have it reserved for the evening. Well, I paid for the afternoon … so I paid twice. But it’s worth it for the privacy.”
Her mouth falls open, giving me savage ideas even if I know that this moment is supposed to exist in a world of romance, not savage release. But it’s difficult to restrain myself when she looks at me like that, her lips forming an inviting O, reminding me of how she moaned and cried out last night.
“Um,” she says after a long pause.
“Um?” I chuckle. “Have I done the impossible, firecracker? Have I made you speechless?”
She giggles, shaking her head, causing her luscious wavy hair to tousle around her shoulders.
“This must have cost millions,” she whispers.
“You’re worth every penny I have,” I say. “Don’t worry about the money. You never have to worry about money again.”
The car stops at the foot of the tower.
I step from the car and walk around to Fiona’s side, opening her door for her. She giggles when she sees I’ve had a red carpet laid out between the car and the elevator that will take us to the top of the tower. Rose petals cover the carpet and the surrounding concrete, hundreds and hundreds of them scattered everywhere.
“Come on,” I say, offering her my hand. “Don’t you want to see how beautiful Paris looks from up there?”
“I can’t believe you’ve done this,” she whispers. “I can’t believe you, Forrest.”
“Well, you better start believing,” I smirk, squeezing onto her hand and hauling her to her feet.
I smooth my hand down her shoulder, stopping at the small of her back as I lead her down the red carpet and toward the elevator. It takes everything I have not to move my hand lower and palm her ass.
That’s for later.
If there is a later.
Am I moving things too quickly?
But no—there’s no such thing as too quickly with me and Fiona.
The elevator doors open and we step inside the large clear glass box. Fiona wraps her arms around my torso, hugging close to me, resting her cheek against my chest.
“This is magical,” she murmurs as the elevator begins to move upward, the interlacing metal framework of the tower passing us by, the city growing smaller and further away beneath us.
Up, up, up, we glide, as though the elevator is going to disconnect and start soaring toward the heavens.
“You’re worth this and so much more,” I tell her, pulling her even closer to me.
She gazes wide-eyed down at the city as we keep ascending as if we’re never going to stop.
“I’m glad we waited until the evening,” she murmurs. “Look how pretty it is with the sun setting.”
She’s right. The Seine glitters and the city seems to go on forever, a landscape of shining windows and faraway life.
Finally, the elevator brings us to the top. I take her hand and lead her through the doors. A light wind brushes us as we walk onto the platform, where more red roses wait, almost covering the ground completely. A few of them have blown away in the wind, and a few more are still dancing in the whirling breeze.
I take her up the metal staircase and to the balcony.
Usually, this would be heaving with tourists, but I’ve had a table and chairs set out, silver platters resting upon the table and our favorite… non-alcoholic champagne, cooling in an ice bucket.
Fiona walks ahead of me with slow footsteps, as though she thinks, if she moves too quickly, she’s going to shatter the illusion of this moment.
She stops at the railing, gazing out upon the city.
I study her from behind, my eyes moving over the cascading beauty of her hair down to her wide hips and her luscious ass, every inch of her made for pleasure and love and childrearing.
She turns to me and frowns for a moment, wondering where I’ve gone.
But I haven’t gone anywhere.